


At Once The Shame and Glory

by ellesmer_joe3



Series: At Once The Shame and Glory [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Art, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Oc, Dubious Morality, F/M, Hannibal and Feelings, Hannibal is Hannibal, Murder (Implied), Red Paint, Rough Sex, Torture (implied), or is it blood, possibly AU because i may have strayed a bit from the show's plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellesmer_joe3/pseuds/ellesmer_joe3
Summary: Hannibal sees it again: the telltale crimson spark that slips into the vivid green of her eyes, turning them all the more sinister. She looks at Hannibal, and he at her, and he knows.The thrill of such a realization, such recognition, sends a shiver down his spine.He is not alone.





	At Once The Shame and Glory

**Author's Note:**

> I used the likeness of Emma Roberts as Heather while writing this. BEFORE she got the bangs, mind you.

 

> _A tender poet of a foreign tongue,_
> 
> _(Indited in the language that he sung.)_

> _A bard of brilliant but unlicensed page_

> _At once the shame and glory of our age._
> 
> _**An excerpt from "Enigma" by Edgar Allan Poe** _

The first time he sees her is at an art exhibition in Annapolis.

Alana invited him and he thought it would have been rude to decline. It was during the weekend, anyway, and he had no urgent appointments then. It would be a good opportunity to deepen his relationship with Alana, as well. He wasn’t sure when he would need her influence to get him out of a tight spot.

He drives by Alana’s residence dressed in a suit and tie. She slides into the passenger seat, and Hannibal is surprised to see her garbed in jeans, a blouse, and a scarf.

“I’m so sorry, I forgot to mention it’s… well, it’s not really a high-end exhibit, you know? I heard the artist is sort of new to the scene. They say she’s really good though, so I thought it wouldn’t matter… to you…”

She trails off, searching for words that might save her dignity.

Hannibal fights to keep his patience. He takes one look at her dark hair, her wary gaze. He chides himself: _You need her._

“No matter,” he says, allowing a playful spark to appear in his eye. “I’ll be the best dressed in the whole room.”

And he was right. When they arrive, he can’t look anywhere without being bombarded with the sight of denim and t-shirts and sneakers. There is a surprisingly large amount of adolescents within the area, probably friends of the artist. Hannibal has to resist the urge to scoff.

His qualms about the audience, however, all but vanish once Alana leads him into the gallery.

There are some sketches laid out on tables, some still-life paintings, but it is evident that the artist’s strength lies in abstract. Undoubtedly the younger viewers found it difficult to decipher the stories that sat before them. Tedious. Tiresome. But Hannibal has always enjoyed a good story.

The overuse of the element of texture, as well as the oftentimes blaring contrasts of warm and cold hues, betrays the inexperience of the artist, however Alana did say that she was ‘new to the scene’. Despite this, Hannibal sees great potential. He sees it in the way the artist tends to blend her blues and oranges, resulting in particularly bold tales; the way she rarely uses any straight lines at all; even in the way she must flick her wrist too overtly when signing in the lower right corners of her works, therefore producing a dramatic upward curve at every end of her signature.

One piece in the far corner of the gallery has Hannibal particularly enthralled.

It is a simple sketch, a messy one at that, and by no means to be considered eye-catching – just a depiction of a small bridge stretching over a canal, amidst buildings and shops – but for Hannibal, it tugs at his heart and at something else in the back of his mind. Familiarity. Nostalgia.

“Hello.”

Hannibal turns in the direction of the small voice and finds a lady standing there.

The black dress she wears hints at some form of sophistication and maturity, but then she is also wearing a pair of faded sneakers. Hair, that looks more orange than brown, is tied into a neat plait and sits at her shoulder; green eyes, staring openly at him. She looks young.

“Good evening.” Hannibal nods in polite greeting, before turning his attention back to the piece.

“Your accent,” she continues airily. “Where is it from?”

Hannibal doesn’t know if she is just naturally curious or if she intends to be rude; some part of him hopes it isn’t the latter. He answers vaguely. “Europe.”

“Where from Europe?”

He merely smiles, and then watches as she ducks her head, sheepishly tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“Sorry, that was rude,” she says. “It’s just always fascinated me, I guess. I’ve only ever been there once. Amsterdam, in the Netherlands. I drew that while I was sitting in a coffee shop.”

Hannibal blinks, first at the sketch before him, and then at the female standing beside him.

“It’s fine. I get that a lot.” She smiles good-naturedly and holds out her hand. “Heather Kaelin.”

“Doctor Hannibal Lecter. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He shakes her hand.

“A doctor? What kind?”

“I’m a psychiatrist.”

“Really?” Her eyes begin to sparkle. “That’s such a coincidence. I’m fresh out of a Psych major, you know. Just got my BS degree four months ago.”

He lifts an eyebrow in pleasant surprise. “You didn’t major in the arts?”

“Well, it was kind of a side job more than anything. I took some workshops here and there, hosted a few myself, but that was all.”

“You’re doing exceptionally well, considering.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and Hannibal has to bite back a smile; her blush is quite appealing. “What do you think of the show so far?”

Before he can answer, someone calls her name from across the room: an older man, perhaps the only person apart from Hannibal who is dressed in formal attire. Heather perks up and Hannibal knows immediately that he won’t be seeing her again for the rest of the night. She looks frustrated, at least. Small consolation.

“I’m so sorry, but I have to go now.”

“I understand.”

She is already walking away, but she calls over her shoulder, “It was nice meeting you!”

Alana approaches him not long afterwards, firing questions about his conversation with the artist. He answers in few words, disenchanted – but hopeful. He has her name.

.

The next time he sees her is in a Home Depot, in Baltimore, and they quite literally bump into each other.

He was just about to exit the aisle when she turns the corner. She drops the basket in her hands out of pure shock alone, but Hannibal is quick to grab her wrist, keeping her from hitting the shelves.

“Crap. I am _so_ sorry, I’m such a…” She trails off then, because her eyes finally alight upon his figure and recognition dawns. She pales at first, before blood rushes up her neck and colors her face a very bright shade of pink. “Oh. Hi! S-Sorry, uh, Doctor Lecter, right?”

“Please, call me Hannibal.” He picks up her basket and hands it over to her, very swiftly taking note of the contents. Standard supplies, except perhaps for the disturbingly large jar that somehow didn’t shatter when she’d dropped the basket.

She clears her throat. “You don’t happen to know where the paint thinners are, do you?”

He points in the direction of them, just down the aisle. As she rushes over to pick out the brand she wants, Hannibal allows himself to run his eyes over her figure. She’s dressed even less impressively than when he last saw her: this time, in nothing more than sweatpants and a hoodie. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, and when she raises her head, he doesn’t fail to notice the lines and splatters of color on her face.

“You’ve been painting,” he says, making no effort to hide the amusement in his voice; he does because he knows it will make her blush, and he is right.

“It’s for another exhibit I’ve been booked for.”

“Oh? When?”

“13th of next month.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You… don’t have to, you know.”

“I want to be there of my own accord, I assure you.”

She blinks, and he delights in how she looks so like a deer caught in headlights. Slowly the smile returns to her face. “That’s great! Hannibal, I’m actually in a rush—it’s just, I had this epiphany, like, ten minutes ago, so I ran over here to get some more supplies but I really have to get back before it gets away from me, you know?”

 _Rambling,_ Hannibal notes. _Most likely because of nerves. I make her nervous._ “I completely understand. Would you like a ride back?”

“That… Actually that’d be great. If you’re finished here, that is,” she hastily amends.

He smiles. “I am.”

They make their way to the counter. Hannibal does not offer to pay for her items, positive that she won’t appreciate it, no matter his intentions.

The cashier is a grimy, middle-aged man with a beer belly and thinning hair. He has the terrible habit of chewing gum, _loudly_ , and not being careful with the items he’s scanning. Hannibal gathers that he is a lazy man, possibly still lives with his mother – but then he notices something else.

Heather.

Her eyes have narrowed into slits. She is breathing heavily. When the last of her items have been scanned, she slides the money over the counter, ignoring the cashier’s outstretched hand. She takes the paper bag containing her purchases and briskly moves aside to make space for Hannibal.

Hannibal wordlessly allows the cashier to scan his items, pays for them, and then leads Heather to where his car is parked. She gives him the name of her street, which he is fortunately familiar with. The ride to her house is quiet. Though a bit irritated with the lack of conversation, he cannot bring himself to fault her completely. Judging from the glazed look in her eye, she is most probably lost in her head, visualizing something for a piece.

“I can’t wait to see it,” he says, once they’ve arrived at the apartment building where she lives. She grins.

“Thanks so much for the ride.” She exits the car and all but runs across the street – and Hannibal cannot deny the quick rush of horror when she doesn’t even look both ways first. She does, however, throw him a look over her shoulder. “I’ll see you at the show!”

He stares after her, unable to shake from his mind the picture of her green eyes, usually so kind and sincere, glittering with dark intent as she had glared at the cashier from the Home Depot. Hannibal smiles languidly, taking note of her address before pulling away.

_Potential, indeed._

.

He does not inform Alana of his meeting with Heather, nor does he invite her to the art exhibition in Harford. He doesn’t want any distractions.

.

The change in her is incontrovertible. Not in how she looks or dresses or speaks, nothing physiological – perhaps that is why no one else sees it, except for the ones who know art, for the ones knowledgeable enough of the human psyche to be able to understand. And then, of course, Hannibal.

It is subtle, but there. The warmth in her paintings has tapered down, the colors less vibrant, instead taking on a gloomier perspective. There are more browns, more grays and blacks. More fascinating, however, is the excess amount of red that she’s used. Hannibal is certain she hadn’t used that much red in the paintings from her previous exhibition.

Heather comes along eventually. They easily fall into light conversation.

When an admirer steps in-between them to introduce themselves to her, Hannibal sees it again: the telltale crimson spark that slips into the vivid green of her eyes, turning them all the more sinister. The avid fan eventually disappears but that spark does not, and she looks at Hannibal, and he at her, and he knows.

The thrill of such a realization, such _recognition_ , sends a shiver down his spine.

He is not alone.

.

They make sure to convene more often after that night: lunches outside, or dinners at his place, or merely just Hannibal watching her work in the close confines of her small apartment. He doesn’t miss the way her eyes keep flickering up to him before immediately returning to her canvas. He knows that she takes some inspiration from him, and he doesn’t mind.

It isn’t long before she regales him with some of her darker thoughts. At random intervals, she says she would suddenly find herself wondering what it would be like to stab somebody, or to gut somebody, or to claw someone’s eyes out.

Hannibal explains to her the sensations that she is so curious about.

And she is, for a moment, caught unawares. But that is gone soon enough, replaced by that grin that he was now quite familiar with.

He makes a point to regale her with his experiences more regularly.

.

One day, he takes her to his house. The cashier from the Home Depot is sitting hogtied in his basement. To the side, on a metal table, is everything Hannibal thought she would ever need. She looks at him, and he says, “Do with him what you will, Heather, to your heart’s content.”

She approaches it like how she would approach one of her paintings: thoughtfully, yet with a recklessness that shakes him to the core. There is room for improvement – _Yes,_ he thinks. _Definitely room for improvement_ – but he knows that can easily be remedied.

When she is finished, not one inch of her is clean of blood. There is a look of childlike wonder on her face; her eyes are dark and wide and glittering. Hannibal thinks she has never looked more like art than at that moment.

He tells her to clean herself up, regretfully taking note of how the light in her eyes seem to dim upon registering his words.

He makes up for it.

As soon as she steps out of the shower, hair still damp and skin smelling of lavender and blood, he rips the towel off her body and takes her to his bed. He fucks her, pounding deep, because he knows she will like it. Her breasts are soft and pliable in his hands, her nipples ripe as he takes them into his mouth, her clit engorged as he rubs mercilessly. She sobs.

She is tight around him, and wet and warm. She claws into his back when he makes her come a fourth time, cries out his name into the open air so perfectly that he can no longer hold back. With three hard thrusts he makes her come again, this time following her into oblivion.

.

She is his accomplice, for a while. She comments on the work they do as “fun”, and Hannibal is inclined to agree. But, perfection does not last forever.

She surprises him though. She asks no questions, not even when he shows up on her porch, battered and bloody, and tells her to pack up her entire life. He doesn’t have to drag her onto the plane. She marches beside him, a willing soldier in the war he has waged against the FBI.

He takes her to his home – his first home, in Lithuania. After a heartbeat, she pulls her sketchpad and pencil out of her backpack and begins feverishly drawing. Hannibal watches from over her shoulder.

She draws the castle, with all its pointed ceilings and bricked walls. It is like the very first piece that had drawn his attention in her gallery – messy, rushed, and smudged, but it is hers and it is familiar. When she is finished, she tears the page from the book and gives it to him, smiling.

“So you’ll remember.”

It is easy to entertain the idea of loving her, then, but he knows he can never again be capable of that. Only care, only devotion.

He kisses her though. That, he can do.

.

It is a fine day in Lithuania when the inevitable happens. Hannibal fights for his freedom, tooth and nail, but it is in vain. He finds solace in the fact that just as great cities are fated to crumble, he too must fall.

Heather struggles at first, like a wild cat protecting its brood, but once her eyes find him, still and calm, and resigned, she settles.

When they are separated, the last thing he sees on her face is a grin. _That_ grin. They take him away and he cannot bring himself to feel too bad, even though he never sees nor hears from her again. For years.

.

The both of them, Hannibal and Heather, were gods for a time: feared and glorious and, in her words from what felt like a millennia ago, said in such a way that had been meant to replicate the accent of the aristocracy, “The sophisticated reimagining of Bonnie and Clyde.” Behind bars, being ridiculed by the so-called ‘men of justice’, Hannibal remains sure of himself. He conjures up the image of her green eyes, glazed over darkly with bloodlust and excitement, and he smiles.

They’d had their fill of lamb once, and a chance would come again.

In time.

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's important to know that I haven't watched a single episode of Hannibal in my entire life. I've wanted to, but I just haven't had the time. I had to settle for watching videos on YouTube and reading important plot points from the wiki to be able to write this.
> 
> My brother did tell me about Silence of the Lambs though, so that's how I know Hannibal is captured and that he eventually escapes, hence, my cryptic ending. Still, I'm sorry if I absolutely missed my shot at Hannibal's character. I hope it wasn't too OOC.


End file.
